Feline Larceny
by C3L35714
Summary: For a few seconds, Ava wonders if she can skate by on particularly good manners and maybe taking a curling iron to her hair, but when she sees Peter Parker pulling out the Good Shoes, she knows that she had better think of something fast. A series of incidents in which Ava needs a bigger closet. Featuring team-bonding, superhero shenanigans, and some IronTiger slow-burn!
1. Family Matters

_**hey, guys! enjoy!**_

_**note: yes, the subject here is "you" and the narration is in second-person, but these stories really are wholly from ava's perspective!**_

* * *

**November. Sunday. 21:58. **

**Parker Household. Living Room. **

You've always liked the sound of a good keyboard, especially when it's you because then it's the sound of _productivity_. By now, you can type so quickly that the repetition is like music: a rhythmic little tapping that makes time tick by so much faster than any clock.

(It reminds you of your claws scratching against cement as you leap into action, _pushing _off with traction you literally scraped off the sidewalk.)

You have a tendency to run your computer battery down to 5% by six or seven o'clock in the evening, so here you are: sitting on a couch in the Parker's living room, your legs folded underneath you, with a magenta computer charger plugged into the only open outlet downstairs. Your eyes track the cursor, your body bathed in a halo of blue-tinted light in the otherwise pitch-black room. Vague sounds muffle and filter from upstairs and the laundry machines, but it is the quietest that the house has been in forty-eight hours.

At some point, you hear light footsteps approaching from behind. It's an effort to make yourself continue typing without looking up until the person is close enough for a nonsuper to discern them properly.

It's Mrs. Parker.

"Lights coming on," she says in that warm voice of hers.

"Thanks, Mrs. Parker," you say. The floors are suddenly lit up in secondary light from the kitchen. You close your laptop and stand up, resisting the urge to stretch until every bone clicks and cricks into place.

Everyone else turned in about an hour ago, including yourself. But it was only a couple seconds into recreating your schedule for the week that this paper caught your attention. Sure, it's due on Wednesday, but who knows what Monday and Tuesday will bring? The itch to clean up your to-do list is too loud to be ignored, so you had snuck back down with your nearly-deceased laptop to get at least an outlet drafted.

"Oh, don't let me bother you," Mrs. Parker says. "I just came down for a bit of tea. Would you like something to drink? Some more milk, maybe." Mrs. Parker is the _best_, you've decided, and you've only known her for a couple days. Living in her house is surreal even without the added factor of Peter Parker.

"No, thanks." You linger anyway, feeling awkward, and you shift in place as she reaches for a mug. Your outline is a solid first-draft start and just needs some more quotations, but you can do that during tutorial tomorrow, so it's not a big deal.

"I seem to remember you going downstairs dressed like that earlier," Mrs. Parker observes. She stirs a spoon into her mug and you nod at her comment. Absently, you scratch at your knee.

"My pajamas got..._misplaced_ in transport," you say wryly, adding in some sheepishness to mask the irritation. The truth of the matter can be summed up in two brief words: _Nova's fault_. But Mrs. Parker doesn't need to know that, and she definitely doesn't want to know how. "I'll just hang this up when I shower," you say about the dress that you're still wearing. "The steam should smooth out the wrinkles."

Honestly, it's no problem to do that, since you have it on excellent guarantee that the steam will do just that. Besides, you've slept in far worse before and during your life at SHIELD, and no one at school will either notice nor care if tomorrow's dress is the same as today's.

Mrs. Parker takes a sip of her tea before she straightens with a smile.

"Wait here a moment," she bids, then heads back up the stairs with such casual vigor that you wonder if she isn't a secret superhero herself. Her compassion and overall fortitude would definitely back up the claim. You take the opportunity to unplug and start coiling up the charger, to tuck your laptop under your arm, as you wait. The laptop burns hotly against the side of your ribs. When Mrs. Parker returns, she presents to you some folded fabric.

"Let me know if these fit you." Mrs. Parker says it with a smile, like it's just a loose hair tie she plucked off her dresser, not a pair of perfectly good clothes.

"Really?" You can't help it, your eyes widening and mouth parting in pleased surprise. "Whoa. Thanks, Mrs. Parker. This is..."

Now, you've been told that you're good with words. This is mainly because you read a lot; you know long words with lots of syllables, and you love etymology. But these skills are used for petty insults amongst peers, snarky replies to mean questions, and embellishing the truth in dire times. Making yourself seem more eloquent than you actually are, or sussing out those tricky little emotion things, is a trick that you've never quite mastered.

Warmer in the face now, you look Mrs. Parker in the eyes and say "Thank you."

Radiating a different worth from you, she looks happy. Really happy, actually; it's the same look that Peter gets when his voice softens and slows during those one-on-one reassurance talks atop skyscrapers well after street patrol ends. That genuine sincerity, it seems, was passed down from one Parker's blue eyes to another's.

* * *

The printed ink on the shirt is fading now, but the clothes themselves are in excellent condition and perfectly clean. Both of them, the loose drawstring pants and vaguely matching baseball tee, have shadows of neat creases.

You have learned to love SHIELD for what it lets you do. Through SHIELD, you get to give back: to all the White Tigers before you, to the people of New York City, to fellow agents, and to your team. SHIELD is an opportunity to carve out a place in the world for yourself. In return, you offer them your own services, but really you're just glad to keep working towards earning the name and mask and gloves of the White Tiger.

And now? It hasn't even been a week yet, and the Parkers have done nothing but give and give and _give_ to you.

You kind of don't know what to do with all of it. You don't deserve it, this incredible show of hospitality and care. You owe them your undying gratitude and a huge helping of loyalty on top of that.

As much as you enjoy needling Parker somewhat incessantly, you will never forget the amazing kindness that he's given to you.

* * *

After a couple days, you can finally give Mrs. Parker her clothes back, because that's the day when she takes you shopping — on SHIELD money, of course. You've never gone shopping like this before. She drives out to a big department store, at the back of which are walls and racks and shelves of women's sleepwear. Frankly, it's overwhelming after years of nothing but SHIELD regulation suits and the mask. Your civilian wardrobe is a pretty dramatic shift from that, and that's nothing but two different dresses in a dozen different colors total, a couple shirts, and a Midtown High gym uniform. Nevertheless, you remember very specifically deciding to never go on such a big-scale excersion every again.

Being allowed — or forced, which is what this feels more like — to choose your own clothes is harder than facing a room of LMDs. You stare at the obstacles in your path — sneaky challenges such as _Mix and Match! _or _from last season's collection _— and try to figure out a plan of attack.

But there is definitely nothing in the SHIELD handbook that covers this.

Mrs. Parker watches you look blankly at a wall of pajamas and, even though she probably doesn't know why, she still offers you some suggestions. Her voice is gentle but not overbearingly so, and after a brief consultation, you feel more than a bit relieved.

So it is that you return to her home with a new set of pajamas for yourself and a horribly nerdy t-shirt for Parker. It's got about half a dozen too-intelligent-to-be-funny puns scrawled on it, and it makes you smirk when you see it, so you throw it over your shoulder and pull an extra bill out of your wallet.

When Parker sees the shirt in his aunt's hands, he laughs — _geek_, you think, but it's fonder than it would have been a few months ago and there is no eye-roll to accompany it — and embraces Mrs. Parker.

For an instant, you actually believe that you might get away with doing your good deed anonymously, but then Mrs. Parker whispers in her nephew's ear and he says his _What? _a bit too loudly. His face goes pink. You're grateful now that your skin isn't so pale as that, because your blush fades down into your soul instead of showing on your cheeks and you'll definitely take that option.

Parker thanks you. You shrug. Mrs. Parker disappears, only to be replaced by Power-Man.

Power-Man points at the shirt in askance. Both you and Parker immediately launch into a series of explanations about the puns, your words running over each other, though it's for naught because Power-Man just gives you a deadpan look — you can almost _hear _the _what geeks those guys are _thought in his head, but that's okay — before doing whatever it was he came in to do.

Parker gives you another long look and you restrain from demanding why. But he might see the impulse in the twitch of your eyebrows because he nods again in gratitiude or understanding or something and heads up the stairs with it clutched in one hand.

It's not much. It isn't anything, really, not when standing in the long shadow of what he's doing for you.

But it's something. You hope so, anyway.

That night, you fall asleep in soft lime and white pajamas. They fit perfectly.


	2. Chemistry Catastrophe

**_this spiderman is such a sweetheart._**

* * *

**February. Thursday. 07:17. **

**Midtown High. Chemistry Lab #2.**

As far as you're concerned, asking Peter Parker for help in chemistry is a great idea. In fact, most of Midtown High would say the same thing, even if they aren't privvy to the same insider's knowledge as you are: that your Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman once used his school chem labs to churn out the base materials of his web fluid.

(But there is one thing that even you didn't know: Parker might be one of the smartest science kids in New York — unless, of course, you happen to ask for his help on one of his off-days. Then, he's about as helpful as any other teenager. Which is not very much at all.)

Unfortunately, you find this out all at once in a very, very messy way.

There's a lab that you need to make up today, because Principal Agent Coulson had the nerve to call you out of chem yesterday. And you can't _tell_ him that, because he's your boss, but you've got steam coming out of your ears for the rest of the day. When he saw you, Danny patted your hand beneath the cafeteria table and offered you some calming tea. Admittedly, your sour reply might not have been the most generous.

Anyway, you've enlisted Parker to walk you through it this morning, and he readily agreed.

(But there is something you don't know: he's just spent the entire night covering a full shift of crime-watching, and he's got concrete dust falling out of his ears from an early morning bank robbery.)

He's done this experiement before, of course, because he's already done all of the ones on this year's curriculum. You are still unused to being the second-brightest, as far as raw academics go, but you suck it up for today because you'd rather get this over as fast as possible. It's an easy lab, Parker promises, and shouldn't take you more than a half hour before school to make up if you do it correctly. And how could you not? You both know what you're doing in a lab, so, obviously, no one will ever know that you're even here.

Maybe it's the sleep-deprivation. Maybe it's your justifiable rage over accidental truancy that you can't really get mad at because you spent the time investigating a sudden appearance by Doc Connors's unfortunate alter-ego. Maybe it's Parker. You don't quite know why. But somehow, instead of a test tube grabbed from Row 746B, Parker adds to your lab table one from its neighbor, 756A, which, instead of being the mild form of an even milder precipitate-forming solution, is its highly reactive cousin.

Everything is going nice and smooth — you've been slowly introducing the team to some of your most absolute favorite Latin song artists and you catch Parker doing some kind of lame grooving every once in a while — until it's really, really not.

You have only just added five miligrams of the solid into the already-filled test tube when Parker suddenly stiffens.

"Cover your face!" he yells quickly, diving beneath the lab table. In front of you, the test tube has begun to froth and spew, so you whirl away, ducking and bracing both arms about your face. Behind you, a hiss escalates into a high-pitched whistle and a short _boom_.

You wait for a solid fifteen seconds for more reaction. Will there be airborn toxins? An explosion? Maybe the sprinkler system will go on and cause more problems with water. But when nothing happens, you eventually feel confident enough to yell at your lab partner.

"What the heck was that?" you say, still crouched. You hear his shoes squeak and assume that he's standing up now.

"It's safe," is all he says at first, his voice high and strangely stilted. You turn around just in time to see him wincing, but one hard look and he explains, worriedly: "Some of the solution got on you."

You freeze. Going in, you didn't plan for anything dangerous, but who knows what you guys just created? Web fluid base came out of some of these cabinets; what if you just put hair-eating acid atop your head?

"Parker!"

He holds his hands up defensively, fingers spread wide.

"Don't worry, I'm sure that this stuff is washable. Well, not in Aunt May's machine. But. If we take it you-know-where, then we should be fine."

"I told you we should have worn aprons," you say scathingly. Since the lab goggles fog up your vision impossibly, you had let them go. And you do remember Peter reassuring you that neither gloves nor aprons nor goggles, which means that your pissed-off feelings have a new channel to pursue.

After all, now look what's happened.

"I thoguht you of all people would understand the importance of lab safety," you finish sardonically.

"Doesn't matter," Parker grouses. "It's on your back...and hair...and legs."

You fold your arms and scowl down at the table. The whole surface is covered in white froth, which apparently is way more dimensional than you had assumed. It was definitely some reaction; you reach for the offending beaker and read the title. So you turn on Parker, ready to roast him til Nova figures out that there are more than just two Americas.

But he gives you this wince, all contrite and everything, and you sigh.

"I'm sorry, Ava," he says. "I should've paid more attention."

The fierce response on your tongue crushes itself up between your back teeth like glass.

"Let's get this mess cleaned up," you say at last.

* * *

Thankfully, you've brought your backpacks with you. You two lock yourselves into the lab and barricade the door temporarily.

(You don't know if the _do not touch locks _rule is intentioned to keep people in or out of it.)

Parker strips out of his layers, handing you a white t-shirt. Nimble fingers do up the buttons on his button-down and he brushes it off like it was planned all along. You try to ignore the mottling of bruises over his ribcage and silently swear to make him start logging street patrol hours, and then swear to keep track of said hours. It takes you a while to figure out why he gave you the shirt, but when you do, you blink at him for a couple seconds before saying anything about it.

"Thanks," you manage. "That's really thoughtful of you."

He gives you a grin and goes to stand guard just inside the door while you extract a pair of leggings from your backpack. New York City winters are nothing to mess with, and you've brought the pants to wear beneath your gym shorts today. In getting up so early and sneaking into the science wing, you didn't have time to stow the clothes earlier.

By the time you both leave the recently-cleaned chemistry lab, you look very little like yourself in a (slightly) too-large white shirt and the workout pants, but you will probably blend in just fine with the other girls as long as no one stops to recognize you.

* * *

At lunch, Danny tilts his head ever so slightly and MJ gives you a funny look, but the first refrains from speaking and the second only asks for an explanation out of curiosity, not out of disdain. You don't exactly have a good reply, but at least you've got enough self-discipline to _not _glance over at your partner in this mess — he's not your partner in crime because that would just be pointless — and his pretty conspiciously buttoned-up button-up.

After school, Parker warns you that Mrs. Parker will probably assume that you've suddenly found the motive to join her and Nova in yoga, so you wait until she's in the garden before climbing into Parker's room through the windo wand starting Power-Man when you walk down the previously-empty hall. You leave the shirt on his bed and vanish smoothly.

* * *

Parker is able to return your now-stainless dress before the week is up, rubbing the back of his masked neck before_ zwipp!_ing away. No one ever gets a real explanation about the random day when Ava Ayala wore leggings and white t-shirt to school, nor does anyone get one about why Spiderman got caught sneaking around SHIELD's laundry room.

But at the end of the day, you've got an A+ and a new benchmark in your friendship.


	3. Xtra Large

**_thanks for coming back, guys!_**

* * *

**April. Monday. 16:42.**

**Mission File #81 - an unknown ocean shoreline.**

Somewhere off to your left, Nova touches down in the sound with a dumb and rather insensitive joke about cats and water. If there is worry in his voice — and you doubt that there is — you cannot hear it, no more than you can muster the energy to snarl in his direction. The mere thought of even glaring is too much, too dizzying.

Lucidity fails you and you are left on your hands and knees in hot sand on an unnamed beach, retching up all kinds of nastiness. You shiver. Each gasping breath you take in is thin, whistling past cracked lips down a parched throat.

A minute ago you were _drowning_, pushed deeper and deeper into the unforgiving ocean depths by a killer mechanical octopus, of all things. It's merely the pet of the enemy du jour, but you wish now that you hadn't underestimated its enhancements, because then both of your legs and one arm might not be stinging and deadweight by some kind of paralysis.

In the moment, there had been no chance for a peaceful acceptance of the danger, only confusion, pain, and struggle, all of it raw and consuming, and you can taste fear on your lips with salt.

You think that that's the worst part of this whole thing: you cannot _logic_ your way out of drowning, can't out-think the oxygen-deficient throbbing in your temples and the burning sensation that climbs up your nose.

Water shouldn't burn, but here, it does. Your eyes sting. Your throat is hoarse, your tongue thick, your ears ringing, your chest squeezed from the inside out, and, ironically, you've never felt so parched in your life.

Distantly, you know that the battle is over and won now. That your knees press against the small, sharp shoreline rocks and not your watery grave. That you are _alive_. But that part of your mind is swallowed up, and the waves that wash over your head, so relentless and vicious over and over again and _again _in sickening rhythm are those of nausea, not of water.

So the knowledge does nothing to assuage the overwhelming fear — a sensation that only gets starkly worse with the sudden appearance of _hands_.

Hands thump against your back and grasp at your shoulders and tangle in your hair and lay heavily across your neck. There are so many hands that it feels like you're being pulled under again. You try to fight, try to thrash violently against your captors lest they cut off your air supply for good, but you still only have control over so much of your limbs' functions and you _can't_.

Suddenly, out of the fog in your head, a bright yellow glow encompasses the whole field of your vision. It quiets your ragged, incoherent breath enough for you to realize suddenly that you have been crying. There are no sobs, not yet, but tears sink in with the rivulets of ocean water and sweat down your unmasked face, and you are _tired_. Tired of spitting up so much sand and water that Sandman would be personally offended, tired of how much it hurts to breathe, tired of fighting towards a surface that never gets closer.

So you stop fighting.

* * *

You don't know this and probably never will, but there is more than just your panic on the beach today. It's Danny who soothes your mental presence after you begin to thrash, one glowing palm lit against the side of your face. But it works too well, the sudden cocktail of stress and fatigue and lull. Instead of sitting up and railing at Nova, your too-wide eyes roll back into your head and you collapse on the spot.

So everybody freaks out.

Spiderman almost snaps at Danny for the accidental mistake, but he just barely restrains his own distress and instead picks up your body before breaking for the ship as fast as possible, Power-Man at his red-socked heels.

* * *

You wake up without even realizing that you ever fell asleep, or maybe just plain-old fainted. The ship, still mid-flight, hums around you, and it is a comfortable substitute presence in the otherwise empty cargo bay. A dull ache resonates throught your body.

You breathe in deep, luxuriating in the simple exercise, when something different catches your attention.

Mint. The smell of mint wafts through the air, cool and clear and fresh against your nose.

Glancing down through weary eyes, you find yourself wrapped up in a familiar sweatshirt. It's doubled-over and tied so many times that you can barely move. After this afternoon's recent trauma, the sensation is more than a little restraining, restrictive, but you decide to bite down on a resurrgence of terror with grace.

Actually, you feel kind of silly in it, even though you had nothing to do with making that decision. Swaddled like a baby is not how you want to debrief with Principal Agent Coulson, but you have to admit that it's comfy. Softer on the inside, too, which makes your dry mouth pull into a smile at the analogy because there is no one else but Luke Cage who could possibly own such a large sweatshirt, never mind one that smells so strongly of mint.

(You've heard people talk about drowning in overlarge clothes, but now that you've experieced that and actual drowning in the same day, you definitely have a preference as to which you'd rather suffer.)

Danny smells like a hundred blends of tea stirred together in impossible cohesion, along with clean paper and sometimes incense. Parker brings home smoke and soot and cinderblock dust and all other kinds of nonsense, and you _never _like smelling Nova. But Power-Man has always had a weird fondness for mint: his gum, his lotion, even whatever he douses his shoes with post-practice.

Resting your cheek against the pillow-hood, you close your eyes again and fall asleep, this time on purpose.

* * *

You don't know this and probably never will, but the rest of the ship is tense. By mere happenstance, you wake up in the brief pause between a shift change in your honor guard. But present or not, all four of your teammates can think of nothing but you. Nova doesn't have anything snarky to say until long after the engines have fired up. Danny doesn't relinquish the projected serenity he's casting your way until after you've been handed off to SHIELD medical on the helicarrier, and Spiderman, who, like Nova, had thought you were just being overdramatic on the beach, is blaming himself to Asgard and back.

Power-Man had wrapped you up neatly before taking the wheel out of Nova's fidgeting hands. His strength is in more than his bulletproof skin.

Unconscious for the rest of the day, including the return back to US airspace, you remain oblivious to all the hovering presences flittering about you like stars in that dark sky, all a blur of confusion, seeking direction because there is no gravity in space and the galaxy seems that much more vast when you drop out of it.

* * *

The only reason that Power-Man's sweatshirt is on the ship in the first place is that the rest of you picked him up — he was late again, of course — for today's mission from sports practice.

You keep it in your possession after SHIELD releases you, and after a trip to the laundry, the sweatshirt goes right back onto the ship, folded and tucked into a neat corner in the back.

_CAGE _might be written on the tag, and it may return on this SHIELD-owned ship for _emergency usage_, but from that day on, it's yours for all intents and purposes. Sometimes, on missions into the mountains, or missions from space, or even that one time when you and Nova kind of steal the ship because you are very, very late to school and somehow he convinced you that this would be the best alternative, you wrap the sweatshirt around your shoulders like a blanket, its sleeves knotted absently around your waist. The thing is big enough that, no matter how you configurate it, you arms are always free to point or pinch or do homework as the situation calls for it.

Whatever the occasion, it settles over you like a warm, heavy hug.

* * *

**_season two is top-notch Ultimate Spider-Man, no bones about it._**


	4. Cats: Can't Stop, Won't Stop

**_have some buckethead love!_**

* * *

**July. Friday. 22:46. **

**Street Patrol. East River. **

_Nova _and _discretion _are antonyms in this world and every other. What SHIELD was thinking when they assigned the two of you to tonight's mission, you don't even want to imagine. They must be out of their minds. The two of you are tasked with keeping an eye on a low-class armed nonsuper who's been toeing the big leagues lately through major weapons dealings. Arms, mostly, but no bombs of yet. So the orders are not to engage unless necessary; you're doing some simple espionage, which requires a level of patience which Nova does not possess.

And, alright. To be entirely honest, you don't really have it either. Though you can definitely appreciate some good intelligence work, once you're in the field, your whole body gets tight and ready to pounce. Watching, waiting for the hunt, sets your nerves on edge.

Alas.

You two have been tailing the woman towards the docks from the downtown area for nearly an hour with no more action than bird-watching. At one point, you get to ditch the mission to stop a would-be robbery, but you're back as fast as you're gone and Nova is still humming the same old song. Should he be humming on an espionage mission? Probably not.

But then again, he shouldn't _be_ here either.

Somehow, Nova figures that the best way to go undercover in his loud, glowy spacesuit is to cover up in a long trench coat and a fedora hat he got from who-knows-where. He looks like a noir detective knock-off with a ski-fi twist, and you shake your head with a silent sigh before leaping to the next rooftop.

* * *

So, as it turns out, the target _is _actively armed. You and Nova and the woman are locked in a labrinthian chase on the loading docks, slipping in between crates and machinery like the wind. With the changed atmosphere, Nova drapes his costume by you before taking off in the other direction, and you have to admit that he's got a point about which of you blends in better now. The stark white of your costume is a signature for a purpose, but right now it might do more harm than good.

"She's on your tail, Tiger," Nova warns on the comm. "Double back, distract, and I'll cut her off." You don't bother responding, instead following your instincts to the high ground. Seconds after you bound up the side of the nearest crate, the target rushes by, hand out and armed beneath the flap of her own coat. You specifically deal with knives more often than guns — and you greatly prefer it like that — so now you're on your toes even more than before.

Literally.

Launching into the air, you summersault to the ground, eyes on the target the whole time. In front of you, she turns around, snarl in place and weapon extended...

...and _fwoom! _she's gone, whisked away none-too-gently by Nova, who crashes into her before she even know's he's there. You catch her gun midair as Nova flies in tight circles until even Director Fury woould be dizzy before dropping her to the ground at your feet. It's just enough to break some bones, not enough to kill or even knock out, so you take care of that, reeling back and punching the arms-dealer in the face before she has thhe chance to go for some other hold-out weapon.

Nova folds his arms as he hovers, pleased with his admittedly excellent save. You give the hat a rakish tilt against your high, thickly bound ponytail, duly impressed that it's stayed on this long. While you were running and jumping, the feel of the trench coat flying beside you felt awesome, but now it hangs awkwardly at your shoulders.

"Where'd you get this thing?" you ask him, shaking out the heavy fabric.

"Couslon's closet at school," he smirks. You immediately shake off the coat and toss it at him, unwilling to take responsibilty for any collateral damage — or _be _collateral damage. "You worry too much. Everything's fine, and-"

From the shadows, you hear the safeties on several guns go off at once and you leap over Nova's head without warning. This way, you can yank him to cover and also use him as a mostly-human shield; if a bullet hits him, it'll bounce.

"Two targets, one gun," you hiss, your eyes cutting through the darkness for movement. "My twelve o'clock and two o'clock."

"I'll draw their fire," he replies, spiraling fast into the sky. He abandons the coat in a pile on the ground and inside your sesible practicalities war against each other: should you applaud his priorities or condemn his lack of respect for other people's property?

Eh.

You decide to go for the real bad guys instead.

"Get 'em, Tiger!" Nova shouts from above, scooping up one target with the clear intention to pull the same skyfall from above. As you claw for the remaining person's gun, you can feel satisfaction in your veins. These guys are gonna hurt tomorrow.

* * *

Local police are ten minutes out, but since there were multiple targets waiting around before, you and Nova also stick around in one of the alleyways a street or two down beside a closed-down coffeeshop.

You lean towards the dusty, cracked glass at your reflection. Your mask looks back at you from under the brim of Nova's fedora.

"I want my hat back," he complains petulantly.

"It looks better on me," you say, against the rising sirens closing in.

* * *

The return journey is nearly as adrenaline-fueled as the mission itself, though the stakes are much smaller. Nova tries and tries to take back his poor fashion statement, grumbling all the while over your snickered insults. Burdened by Principal Agent Coulson's coat, it takes him way more blocks than it arguably should to knock the hat clear off your head.

He jams it over his helmet with a whoop and flies faster, grinning.

You just can't believe he didn't impale it with that buckethead helmet of his.


	5. Identity Theft

_**honestly, i go back and forth with whether i ship IronTiger or just love it platonically.**_

* * *

**September. Tuesday. 14:12.**

**Midtown High. Gym Class.**

Trading chores is the main form of currency in the Parker household. Laundry duty in particular is always up for grabs, because the process tends to be a low-key disaster when anyone except Mrs. Parker or Peter or you does it.

Power-Man leaves unwashables in the dryer because he tends to just shovel the whole lot over; Danny is learning but still helpless; and Nova is infamous for having somehow _exploded_ a washing machine once.

Mrs. Parker is _really_ not supposed to know about that one — you can't tell if she does yet — so the possibility of a repeat mistake is the only reason you let him get away with never, ever being put on laundry duty. Or, when he is, you just trade with him. Besides, he's actually more useful in the kitchen.

* * *

You don't know this yet, but you are about to really, _really_ wish that you were the one in charge of laundry this week, because whoever is makes a crucial error along the way.

* * *

As soon as you walk into the locker room, your sensitive hearing just about _drowns_ in the sudden caccophony that greets you.

Sinks in the bathroom are running and a door is banging shut a few banks over and the warning bell is going off loudly. Slinging your backpack off with less care than usual, you sit down on the bench and become one with whirlwind of motion around you. In the short span of just a couple minutes, so fast that the combination lock is still spinning, you are pulling your uniformly pale blue gym shirt over your head and stuffing your always-bursting bag into the small metal space.

Then you pause.

You look down.

This is _not_ your gym shirt.

It sits too loosely on your shoulders, exposing the whole of your collar blades and too much skin, does not gather along your hips, and the sleeves flap halfway to your elbows.

Huh.

You glance around.

There's no one even remotely close to you, unless you count the chatter of the swim team across the way. This tells you two important things: one, that this can't be just some other random chick's shirt you accidentally pulled off the same shared bench, and two, that you are taking way too long if there is no one else in your class still here.

With a groan, you close your locker with a particularly hard slam and jog out.

* * *

Yeah, you're late. Thankfully, the coach either doesn't notice or doesn't care, so you just step into place and keep your eyes up until he sends you all out to do laps in the cold to warm up before the rest of class.

It takes a while for the class to migrate from the gym to the outside, and this gives you a chance to do some sleuthing work.

The more you think about it, the shorter the list of possibilities gets. Power-Man's sleeves would hang halfway to your wrists — forget the elbows — if it didn't just fall right off your shoulders first. Nova's sleeves have permanent folds in them because he keeps rolling them up. Even without that, you think that you would recognize the scent on it; Nova seems to have taken his _don't do the laundry_ rule a little too broadly lately. And besides, he has gym earlier in the day with poor MJ, and she didn't let on to anything strange during lunch.

That leaves you with two other options.

You look for Peter first. He is lagging behind, per usual in gym.

Suddenly, it occurs to you to wonder where your own shirt is, and that's when you get the answer to both questions.

Ah.

Oh, you're really hoping that no one else notices the exchange, hoping to escape Midtown High's drama-loving grapevine — there is _zero _percent of a chance that you can come up with a reasonable excuse — hoping that your team is as ignorant about this as they are about so many other things.

Unfortunately, it's a very small hope, one that dwindles with every passing second, because Power-Man is currently snickering and Danny's got guns that flex every time he folds his arms and they do not fit the sleeves of your shirt very well. He does that — the arm folding — in those rare, rare situations when he is uncomfortable and cannot power up.

Great.

Your eyes meet and you both share a grimace before you catch up to them. The first order of business? To punch Power-Man in the arm. He lets out a loud guffaw, a real heavy kind of laugh that turns literally everyone's attention towards the three of you. Quickly, you face away from the maojrity of the crowd, looking skywards and pinching the bridge of your nose.

It's gonna be a long class period.

* * *

You hit the track with Harry, like always, and are satisfied that he, at least, has no clue about the truth behind the accidental laundry mishap.

"What was all that about?" is all he asks, pointing behind you guys to where Power-Man is along the track. You just scowl in response and that seems to suffice because he huffs a laugh into the bitterly cold air and doesn't press. You wish more boys were like Harry Osborne, especially because the one called Luke Cage has decided to do everything in his power to make this more annoying.

"Looks good on you, Ava," he jokes in between push-ups, and you are too frustrated by the content of his words to appreciate that he's managed to speak quietly for the first time in his entire life.

"Shut up," you reply, eyeing him. He seems like the obvious culprit for this whole thing, but it's not really in his style. He also has a solid alibi, having been at practice for most of yesterday afternoon. Nova does, too, so the blame rests on either Parker or Danny. You figure that Danny is suffering enough no matter who caused it.

Power-Man is still laughing.

"It's the _same _shirt, _Luke_," you hiss, standing up and brushing off your hands and getting ready for dodgeball. You resolutely do not meet Danny's eyes as the coach breaks up the class.

Flash, Power-Man, and Peter are part of one team. You, Danny, and Harry are put on the other.

While Peter and Harry go be best buddies on one side of the court, getting everyone around them knocked out even as they fail to hit each other, tension practically _crackles_ around you. There is vengeance on your mind and the scent of competition awakes the beast inside.

It seems like half of your team are terrified to even throw in Flash's range and the other half would like nothing more, but none of them have anything on you. You nail the bully in the ribs and grin smugly.

"Your ten o'clock," Danny calls from somewhere behind you. You resist the urge to handspring out of the way when a simple, ordinary, nonsuper sidestep will do the job just fine. The ball whizzes past your face at irregular speeds and you glare at the thrower. Power-Man waves back before continuing to utterly destroy the rest of your team — with his obvious size and enthusiasm that tower above the rest of the class, even a squishy red foam ball suddenly becomes a WMD.

Danny passes you a ball and you grip it tight in your hands, gearing up to fight as if Director Fury is watching. There is a small collection of balls laying about your feet: a subtle army that Danny has apparently been amassing. You nod at him in thanks, too far gone into battle mode to bother shifting back. You stalk your present opponent, waiting until he checks behind him for another ball, and then attack with blinding speed and ferocity.

Nevertheless, there is only so much speed you can give to a squishy red foam ball, and your throw misses by a hair. Power-Man indignantly dodges both your throw and Danny's, which passes him by just a second after yours. Against anyone else, it would have been an impeccable combination.

You suppose you should be glad, in the big picture, that Power-Man, who is usually a steadfast partner of yours, is not so easily daunted — he is shouting at you now, but you don't hear it. Instead, you make good use of the pile of weaponry, flinging ball after ball at Power-Man.

Overcome at last and surrounded by well-used ammo, he sinks to his knees in overdramatic defeat and you resist a primal urge to lick your lips, slowly. Instead, you just grin at him with all your teeth before shaking the hunting urge out of your head. You and Danny stand side by side, victorious.

Off to your right, Peter and Hary have finally been tagged out and are lobbing good-natured insults back and forth with much more accuracy than anything else you witnessed from them during the real game.

Nobody notices the shirts.

* * *

You have excellently honed instincts and he is all about finding balance, so how you manage to actually collide with Danny Rand is beyond you entirely.

Well, alright. You can think of a couple contributing factors. It's after school now, and, back at home — Peter's home — you're reading a book in one hand and holding his tightly-folded gym shirt with the other as you climb up from the basement. Unfortunately, he rounds the corner at the same time with the same plan and both of you forget how to stop until it is too late.

You walk right into him with an _oomph! _of surprise. He catches you by the wrist and shoulder before you can take an embarassing fall down the stairs, and you exhale loudly before looking down.

You blink.

In the kerfuffle, it seems that both of you dropped your armloads to catch _you_, which means that both shirts and your book are falling and bouncing and dragging down the stairs...

...and you cannot tell whose shirt is whose.


	6. Of Many Different Hats

**_here we go!_**

* * *

**October. Wednesday. 08:00.**

**Parker Household. Living Room. **

**Yesterday Night.**

As the snowflakes start drifting down, slowly but surely covering the earth, Danny goes up on the roof for almost two hours. You follow him, grabbing your scarf on the way out and gently pushing a loudly confused Peter out of the way. There's a look on Danny's face that you don't recognize — it's too dark, too focused, too..._intense_ — and it makes your eyebrows scruch.

By the time you close the door behind you, he's already hauling himself up to the roof, the muscles of his shoulders and back flexing hard through the light material of his sweater. You scale up after him, moving even faster, so much energy compressed into your toes.

Atop the house now and unbothered by the steep slope, Danny kneels. Closes his eyes. He doesn't look troubled anymore, now that he's stopped moving. _Wistful_, maybe. But you keep your thoughts quiet, letting him guard his silence. If it brings him any comfort, no matter how small, you will stay out here all night watching the snow fall and counting the flakes that land on his face.

Alas, that is not to be.

"Solitude is its own friend," Danny tells you. "Be at peace so I may too."

So you take off your scarf, fold it in half, and loop it around his neck. He opens one eye, just for a moment, and you smile faintly before leaping off the roof and landing softly onto the white-speckled ground.

Inside, Mrs. Parker is fretting over the chill and the likelihood of Danny catching sick, but you assuage her questions — despite not having all the answers yourself, you do have a hunch. And from the looks of things, so does Peter.

For the next like hour and a half, he looks like he's gearing up to tell you something — he couldn't be _less _subtle about it; he glances up at the ceiling every once in a while, even — but for whatever reason, he clams up every time you raise your eyebrows at him. Maybe he sees your acknowledgement as a glare, and maybe he's right. Or not. Either way, Nova eventually brushes off the tension in the room, vocally dismissing Danny's behavior as just another quirk. Whether or not anyone — Nova himself included — believes it, the mood eases as everyone makes an effort to pretend that everything is okay.

And perhaps everything _is_ okay.

Danny returns after a couple tv-show episodes have ended, meeting any concerns with a usual, vague reply and a sketched bow before he goes upstairs and lightly closes Peter's door.

You ignore Peter's still-searching eyes; he is again looking at you, as if he thinks he knows something that you do not. You don't have enough evidence to tell him that it's probably the other way around.

You wonder to yourself if it snows in K'un-Lun.

* * *

**The Present.**

Roughly twenty minutes before school starts, they announce a snow day. A morning of snark now swallowed by by cheer, three of five super teenagers are let loose in the Parker's front yard. You hope today's snow day is less exciting than the last snow-turned-beach day.

"Harry's on his way," Peter announces, lingering beside you at the window. Danny is practicing form with his eyes closed while Nova lobs lazy snowballs at him, each throw a miss so close that you are not quite sure what's happening over there. Does he know? Meanwhile, Power-Man is building a fort. You contemplate stuffing Nova inside and calling it a day. He might even enjoy it.

You, for one, have yet to get tired of snow. Even during patrols, New York City winters make you feel that much more tiger-ish, like you could blend right in, on the cusp of breath and sound, before _pouncing_.

Mrs. Parker and Peter are ready for the season long before it hits — well, what do you expect? they're locals — but Nova is as stunned as he is delighted.

He tries to make a snow angel in his pajamas, the first day, only to hurl himself, screaming, straight back towards the porch. His first coherant words? _It melts right through your clothes!_

Space may be cold, but his suit keeps him warm enough that it doesn't count, and apparently he lived in a desert before this whole superhero-gig. You doubt his fascination for snow will ever cease.

As for everybody else?

Power-Man observes snowball fights for about thirty seconds before dominating them completely. He holds the honor of the one-man victory — it's the most official of your titles, depending on who you ask — after defeating them four to one.

Mrs. Parker goes snowboarding, snowmobiling, ice skating, cross-country and trick and slope skiing, and, for all you know, is halfway to creating an art of pogo-sticking it out in the snow. Her nephew likes the stuff as Peter and struggles with it as Spiderman. Apparently, web fluid doesn't stick too well to sleet.

You watch Danny as he moves seamlessly through motions that only he knows, grace and power sliding together. He looks peaceful now, and you've got a feeling that he meditated more than he slept last night.

In all truth, though, he looked alright when you two talked this morning. Waking up before the sun has its fair share of perks; today, those benefits presented themselves in the freedom of speaking and listening without an audience. You and Danny linger together in the kitchen before the clock even strikes five as he makes tea for you and Mrs. Parker and himself and you make hot chocolate for the others.

You're pretty sure that he knows about your hunch, but he doesn't mention it so you won't either. Besides, you don't even have the words. _Homesick_ is not quite right and neither is _regret_, but he tells you about fates shifting and intertwining and you are just relieved that you hear no shame.

* * *

"Harry's here!" Peter says cheerfully, summoning your wandering thoughts and eyes. He heads outside and you take a sip of scalding tea before following to greet the guy. As soon as you cross over from porch step to front lawn, a snowball comes heading your way. You duck and it smacks into Harry, who expertly kicks a wave of snow in Nova's direction. It sloshes all over him. He tries to mimic the action but accomplishes little more than getting his foot stuck.

Twelve minutes later, you are half-buried in snow next to Harry, your team of two pitted against the formidable combination of Power-Man and Peter. Danny and Nova have been wiped out without significant trouble, and they sit on the sidelines building things and drawing in the snow. Your face, you can bet, is red from exuberance and glee, and from the absolutely _biting _sting of ice and snow that now rests between the cracks in the armor of your clothes.

Harry gives you snow gloves and, curiously enough, one of his beanies during the first round. Here, Peter snickers; apparently it's some kind of inside joke that Harry is wearing two hats, but you don't understand it. You're not sure you want to.

Harry, who is well trained in the art of snowball-making, creates perfect stacks along your team's half of the yard while you hurl them over the bushes in squadrons like a pro.

"Dodgeball 2.0," Power-Man booms right before a snowball as big as your head comes crashhing sloppily through the treeline. You give Harry a confused look, eyebrows raising up against the snug beanie. He shrugs.

"What?" says Peter. You smirk; he's just given away his position, and you intend to exploit that mistake. You creep along the boundary wall of packed snow, approaching a sneaky stack of snowballs left there earlier before a strategic retreat.

Your gloves — Harry's gloves — crinkle beneath your fingers.

"Last month, don't you remember? They totally tag-teamed us in gym class," Power-Man explains.

There.

You're only gonna get one shot at this, and there's a high chance that you'll be pelted or drowned in snow as soon as you emerge, but as long as you take him with you, it will count.

You leap a good few feet through the air, swing your arm backwards, and release.

* * *

As you predict, you and Harry suffer a spectacular defeat at the hands of Luke Cage and Peter Parker, the latter of whom is apparently tipped-off by his spidey-sense.

Cheater.

You and Harry sit on the porch steps to breathe as the others continue churning the front lawn into a decent battleground.

(And this is saying something — you know an awful lot about battlegrounds.)

"Before I forget...," you say, peeling off his gloves. You chuck them lightly at him, nailing him in the chest with one and the face with the other. It's not really an accident, so you don't mind that he scrapes some snow off the porch and clumps it cheerfully onto your shoulder.

"Keep 'em," he says nonchalantly.

"Nah." You take off the beanie, too, turning it over your bare and rapidly-turning-blue hands. Harry Osborne is rich enough to buy a thousand gloves and hang them up on his walls like decor — of course, he never would, because that's a horribly arrogant and stupid waste and Harry is neither horrible nor arrogant nor stupid nor wasteful. But by now he must have some theory as to why Mrs. Parker packs you always with leftovers or why your school supplies all match.

He's not _quite_ right, of course, but you're certainly not going to correct him.

Anyway, the point is that, although he means well, once a superhero starts collecting undue favors, villainy opens one eye.

"I'm fine without them."

He nods a couple times.

"I believe you." Across the yard, Peter turns on Power-Man and drops a bunch of snow down the back of his coat. The bigger dude squawks inelegantly. "But I insist anyway."

You arch your eyebrow. Harry has no idea just how stubborn you can be, never mind how persuasive.

"Oh? The way that, last week, third period, you insisted that..."

"Hey, alright, alright," he interrupts hastily, surrendering. Good. That's what you like to hear. "How about a trade instead?"

Hmm. Maybe you underestimated his stubbornness, too. After all, anyone who's best friend has been Peter Parker for the last decade and a half has got to have some backbone.

"I'm listening." Danny is back to doing whatever-it-is that he's doing. Power-Man shakes a treetop's worth of snow on top of Peter and Nova throws his head back with laughter.

Harry coughs and it comes out as steam.

"I'm, uh, not doing too hot in English right now. My dad...well, let's just say that nobody's looking forward to my next report card. So here's the trade: help me with my book report, and you can keep the gloves until after I turn it in."

"When's the report due?"

"Month and a half."

You aren't fooled, of course, and neither is your pride — but Harry is your friend and his offer is no more than what you would do if the situation was swapped.

"The hat, too," he adds.

Besides, you do kind of itch to help Harry with his English class. Listening to him cram in essays during gym is frustrating beyond belief. Does anybody _actually_ do high school reading?

"Deal," you say, extending a hand. You end up shaking a limp, empty glove before a snowball strikes the step right beside you both. And with that, you both take off running towards Power-Man for some broad-shouldered cover. The teams invert themselves into you and Power-Man and Danny against Nova and Harry and Peter.

You win.

* * *

Two months later, the snow shows no sign of stopping. During patrols now, you really do get to leap out of nowhere, and it feels good.

You still have the hat, though the gloves you return to him the morning he submits his report. Of course, you try to give him the hat also, but he puts it in your backpack when he thinks that he's being sneaky.

But the grade comes back excellent — you think it helped to audiobook the novel this time — and when he smiles, you feel warm.


	7. Wear Where?

**_hey, guys!_**

* * *

**December. Saturday. 17:02. **

**Midtown High. Second Floor.**

**That Morning.**

Norman Osborne is many things. At the moment, he's trying to be a good father — whether or not he's successful is something only Harry has the right to determine, but at least you can see that the man is trying. Still, old habits are hard to break and he negotiates with his son more often than not. The democracy of it all, so business-like, seems better than the old dictatorship. But again, it's not for you to say.

Anyway, Oscorp is holding an Into The New Year party for some of its more expensive clients. Harry will have to be on site the whole night, but apparently Norman has agreed that, as long as Harry makes a few appearances for the first half of the night, he can escape the majority of it with some friends.

You — along with Peter, Nova, Power-Man, Danny, and MJ — are invited while leaving the cafeteria. Outwardly, you show nothing but quick thanks to Harry and some general enthusiasm over the idea.

After Harry leaves with Peter, though, you silently express your surprise to Danny, who only smiles.

It would be very easy for Harry to invite only Peter and MJ, or maybe just the boys. It makes sense, and you know that. But for you — all of you — to be included, too? Well. You like Harry and consider him a good friend. That he seems to reciprocate the thought is...nice. Very much so.

Peter seems to agree. He seems relieved, even, at the prospect of everyone being invited. You know that he struggles, sometimes, with loyalty and boundaries and identities, but that would take way too much time to reflect upon now and the bell is already ringing, so you slap hands with Danny before departing among the scattered teenagers.

* * *

**The Present.**

As it turns out, this party is going to be more difficult to manage than originally anticipated. You should have assumed so, given the host, but dress code slips your mind entirely.

Normally, you couldn't care less about strangers' opinions on what you wear — but then Mrs. Parker mentions something about d_ressing up _and the whole world clicks to a halt for a moment. For those few seconds, you wonder if you can skate by on particularly good manners and maybe taking a curling iron to your hair...

...but when you see _Peter Parker_ pulling out the good shoes, you know that you better think of something _fast_.

Unfortunately, nothing you have is remotely nice enough to consider. You do have dresses — actually, you only have dresses — but they're casual and comfortable and will not suffice. Your only pair of pants are green pajamas. You ransack your closet (suitcase) with more and more speed, even though you know that you'll just have to clean up later.

You consider going to Danny, just...because...but you shake your head at the irrational thought. He's not even in the house at the moment.

There's neither time nor money enough for you to go find a nice party ensemble. The rest of your friends are probably in a very similar boat.

Then, out of nowhere, one Mary Jane Watson pops into your brain and you tear out of the house with an energy that surprises yourself. Your feet smack the pavement as you let a little bit of the White Tiger lend itself to your soles.

* * *

**Watson Household. MJ's Room.**

You sit on MJ's bed while the redhead stands _inside_ her own closet, one foot resting precariously on a short stack of books.

"I thought you didn't like all this formal stuff," you mention as she tosses some shirts over your shoulder. Your eyes twitch; the piles of accepted clothes and rejected ones have blended.

"Anything for a friend," MJ replies distactedly, wrestling with a hanger. "You're right. I don't care much for dressing up, but there are only so many formal events where I don't have to bring a notebook."

You like chatting with MJ, even if it makes you a bit hypocritical because you hate the kids at Midtown High who flood the hallways with rude, tactless gossip. But whatever. You rarely get to throw shade with someone who, rather than blanching or whistling in surprise, only gives you a wicked grin and stacks a couple more outrageous scandals on top.

"Aha!" MJ declares triumphantly. You hop off the bed as she backs out of the closet with something blue in hand. She herds you towards a long mirror and you look at the two girls in the reflection.

The fabric is a beautiful blue — even you can tell that — but it doesn't seem to fit quite right...? MJ politely raises the hanger to your shoulders and now that she's done it, it's clearly a dress.

And you wear dresses, yeah, but this is a different beast altogether.

"What do you think?" MJ asks, putting her hands on her waist. It's clear that she's satisfied. "I've got at least two more good options if you aren't sure about it."

"That won't be necessary," you interrupted, still staring at the mirror like the shimmering pool of blue fabric might really swallow you up. "I like it."

* * *

For herself, MJ puts together a neat sleeveless blouse and a blazer, paired with heels and some cropped pants.

"Thoughts?" she requests, turning slightly. It's not the first time that she's asked. "Is it too...matronly?"

You appraise your friend. You're no expert at this and you almost tell her so. But then you don't, because she already knows that and is asking you anyway. You look some more.

"Not at all. You look professional. Competent." She glows.

* * *

You're almost out the door when MJ suddenly slips out of her shoes and darts back into the room, shouting a brief apology over her shoulder.

You don't wear much jewelry and don't even intend to tonight, so it takes you a while to realize what stopped her up: a bracelet, thin and metal, that bounces on her wrist. It looks nice but not extravagant, and maybe a little small. An old gift, perhaps?

She winks and exits, gesturing outward into the great beyond.

The trip from the Watsons' to the Parkers' takes longer than the first time around. The heels have something — a _large _something — to do with that, but you both knew that when you decided to walk over despite the distance. MJ has motivation and you have endurance of the likes she cannot imagine, so you two can make it work.

Also, MJ might not be fond of dressing up in the traditional sense, but you saw that closet. This girl has a secret love after all: tall shoes.

The Osbornes send a limo down the Parkers' little street, and all six teenagers pile in after letting Mrs. Parker take some pictures. You and Peter each get a kiss on the cheek. MJ and Nova — and Peter — get big hugs. Power-Man and Danny — and Peter, again — get soft words and big smiles and her hands resting on their wrists.

Somehow, the boys have all managed to get their hands on reasonably decent clothes, too, down to a shine on Nova's shoes that matches even Peter's. You're pretty sure that Peter is wearing his late uncle's old clothes: they're impeccably neat but a little big, even though he wears it tightly, and Mrs. Parker's hands grasp at his shoulders with pride when she adjusts his collar.

Danny is wearing a familiar plain white t-shirt but it's tucked beneath an impressive and expensive-looking blazer that you've never seen before. The look doesn't fit him quite as well as his flip-flops do, but he looks sharp. Very sharp. Very, very sharp.

Nova's hair is actually neat, for once, and though Power-Man is wearing old shoes, his sleeves are all straightened out and so is his tie.

* * *

Harry, dressed to the nines, is thrilled and a little dumb-founded to have all of you here. He doesn't come out and say as much — perhaps because he is in the presence of his father, or perhaps because he doesn't want to express those more vulnerable emotions. Whether on purpose or not, though, beneath his spoken "You came! Er...I'm glad you guys could make it," it's not hard to see the delight of companionship in his eyes when he reaches for Peter and MJ and Danny and Power-Man and Nova.

* * *

What you don't know is that Harry spends most of the afternoon unsure of himself and uncomfortably warm. He drums his fingertips against the table-top. It would be very, very easy for everyone but Pete and MJ to opt out. It makes sense, as much as it makes his chest tighten.

He likes Pete's new buddies, now that he's gotten the chance to meet you. He does. Sure, he's admittedly jealous as much as he isn't, but it's getting better.

The point is that by now, he considers you to be good friends. That you all seem to reciprocate the thought is...nice. Very much so.

He refrains from running for the elevator when the limo pulls up. Instead, he moves less-conspicuously to the window and counts each exiting figure: _one, two, three, four, five, six! _Every one of you is here and dressed formally and, from the looks of it, laughing. Satisfied now and confident again, Harry returns to stand by his father's side.

He's grinning.

* * *

The party, you notice at first glance, is as gorgeous as it is boring. Calling it _dull _is not correct because the whole room _gleams_. The only reassurance here is that you definitely were in the right to go find MJ for assistance, rather than roughing it.

At one point in the Harry-greeting, he blinks at you with a brief confusion. For a moment, you don't know if you've read the look correctly in all the chaos. Then, later and under his breath, Harry asks, "MJ's?" with caution and curiosity. You nod, unused to any sort of attention on your appearance. "I recognize it, is all," he explains.

"Oh," you say.

The dress still reminds you of water, of ripples in a pond or against a glass mirror in different shades of sheer blues. It's very pretty.

Maybe you are, too.

"Can I get you something to drink?" he asks.

"You know me," you reply, affecting a lofty tone. "Nothing but the finest French wines before midnight."

He laughs and any tension dissipates.

"I don't know about wine," Harry says, "but I got a shelf full of juice and milk...er, sodas. And, uh, lemonade. Also."

"Sounds great," you say.

The party goes smoothly. There are no last-minute univited guests which summon Spiderman, and just as Norman had promised, Harry and friends linger in the main ballroom for the first half of the evening, even making occasional small talk with business people who are, in turns, either curious or wary of this handful of street kids.

At one point, you and your enhanced hearing pick up on a couple across the room — a middle-aged man with a pinched nose and a white-haired woman with a fat pearl necklace — throwing shade. It's like they're from a cheesy drama — you hear something about oh, that poor dear, young Harry Osborne, who's been starting to raise people's eyebrows, whose life choices might need some firm-handed guidance — only that there's nothing funny about it.

They mutter and tut and sigh and stir up smoke in their corner of the room.

Danny is the only one to pick up on your suddenly-raised hackles; thankfully, Harry is too occupied to notice you all getting trash-talked: Harry and Nova are _this_ close to wheezing into their fists as they throw lame playground-level nicknames at the people around them.

Later, during one of several self-imposed headcounts — it's a valuable skill in the field to know where everybody is at any given moment, and it's something that sticks with you off the field — you notice that Danny has distanced himself. He's...

He's _talking _to the annoying old couple, one hand in his pocket and the other gesturing mildly. And within seconds of him talking, their demeanor shifts entirely. Their patronizing looks become surprised. Impressed.

You strain your hearing but only catch snippets: _ROI is through the roof these days _and _tell me, son, what do you think of this _and _interviews start early _and _always looking for new blood on the Street_. You circle the room nonchalantly, eyeing the certain ways his face tightens and smoothens out.

It's fake.

So you make extra-sure to keep an eye on him, at least until he's exited the situation safely.

Are you overreacting? Maybe. Do you care? Nope.

Eventually the woman says something that makes Danny incline his head before excusing himself. He joins you with a quiet stride and the couple whispers to each other furiously.

_Well?_ you ask with your eyebrows.

"Conducting business," is all Danny says. A sort of sly smile appears on his face. It's the closest to a smirk that he'll ever get, as tactful as he is. It makes you laugh.

* * *

The second half of the night finds seven teenagers in a room to yourselves. It's just a couple floors away from the grand ballroom, because Norman requires his son be as close as possible for a speedy retrieval. Stiff, cushy couches line the room, tall tables and exotic art line the walls. Between all that and the expensive clothes, relaxing completely isn't possible, but the air is considerably fresher here. Less stuffy.

Wearing MJ's long dress means that you can't join Peter and Nova on the floor, and wearing MJ's high shoes mean that you can't stand beside Harry and Power-Man and MJ, so you sit on a couch opposite Danny and cross your ankles.

(Years from now, you will learn what it means to confidently take off heeled shoes during a formal event and walk barefooted with your hair loose, but that night is not tonight.)

To everybody's relief, Harry is not summoned for at all, so with the exception of food-raid that is more exciting than it possibly should be, the room becomes your home for the next few hours.

Jokes are made and received with groans and blushes. Stories are shared, embarassing or thrilling or genuine. Surrounded by all of your friends, you laugh until your sides and forehead hurt, until you can't see from the tears in your eyes, until, standing up now, you nearly bump into Power-Man for balance. (Actually, you do collide every once in a while; it's just that he doesn't seem to notice.) More than once, you or MJ remember something you two _chatted _about earlier about one of the other occupants in the room, and both of you nearly lose it.

It's the best night you've had in a while — certainly the most fun.

Through it all, you don't forget about MJ's dress — or, really, how thankful you are to have her for a friend — nor how unlikely it is that anyone will ever force you into heels again. Sure, you can walk in a straight line with all the grace of a...well, of a cat, but your toes are starting to go numb.

* * *

It's after midnight when the limo pulls up to the Parkers' house after dropping MJ off at her own. You and Danny and Power-Man seek a shower before bed, but Nova conks out before even taking off his shirt and Peter will be up debriefing with his aunt for a bit. You hear their voices above you as you shuffle around in the basement, but it's easier to tune out as the adrenaline starts to ebb away.

You're exhausted. But, just for tonight, there is no chortling villain or approaching exam that keeps you staring sightlessly up. Instead, the last thing you see before hitting the light is MJ's dress hanging against the door to prevent wrinkles, all flowing and soft. And all you hear are recent memories of your friends and a weird mix of contemporary and classical music.

You fall asleep wearing soft, lime-colored pajamas, content.

* * *

**_thanks for reading, friends! _**

**_which chapter was your favorite?_**


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